


"hope" is the thing with feather (down)

by artreactor



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blasphemy, Caliborn's Masterpiece, Earth C (Homestuck), Implied trans characters, M/M, Religious Discussion, The Claymation, There is sexual content but it's not explicit, abuse of hope powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 20:28:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13643868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artreactor/pseuds/artreactor
Summary: “You know, if you really are that pissed about how shit went down, I’m more than willing to accept my punishment.”Jake pauses for a moment, the cogs turning in his mind, before his face goes completely red. “Dirk, we are not doingthatwhile you have four broken ribs!”In which Dirk's claymation inspired ideas have a claymation induced hindrance.(Also known as "Dirk looks god in the eye while he jacks off and calls him a heretic")





	"hope" is the thing with feather (down)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plushrumpx (TwinklePark)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwinklePark/gifts).



> I hope everyone is aware that I have never written a nsfw fanfiction before and this is what I chose to break into the industry with. You're fucking welcome. Also, if you're underage, skedaddle or I'll personally come to your house and ground you. Don't test me. 
> 
> A few notes before we start. Catholic imagery is literally just because I like tying hope/faith powers with religion/spiritual belief. I don't think either Dirk or Jake have any Catholic specific influence, but frankly I wasn't willing to butcher any religion I wasn't raised as part of for the sake of what is basically Dirk getting his rocks off. (FYI: I am culturally an Irish catholic, but disagree largely with Catholic ethos and especially with Catholic influence in this country, past and present. None of this is relevant to Dirk getting off though.) One day I'll write something properly about hope powers vs religion but right now, I've got these fish to fry. 
> 
> Also before I get into the actual fic, Jake is not a dom in this fic. While I think Dirk is attracted to exhibits of power and could be partial to occasionally having the illusion of control being taken away from him by someone he trusts, I think Jake's specific trauma would make it uncomfortable for him to attempt this. I think his general personality would make it downright hilarious if he attempted it otherwise though. That's for another day. 
> 
> I should also mention that Jake isn't remotely manipulative. Any abuse of hope powers is entirely accidental.
> 
> Anyway this is a belated birthday fic for plushrumpx 
> 
> I swear I'll finish CTCM soon

 

1879, post common era, pre condescension, in Knock, Ireland. Two women claim to have seen the participants of the nativity, standing outside a village church. Dozens more witnesses gathered, hands clasped in prayer in front of the shadowed figures. Upon the altar of the small church, stood a lamb surrounded by angels. Since then, believers attend what is left of a decimated shrine to take pieces of a miracle home with them in their luggage.

Dirk has dutifully noted, over years of studying the sociology of his antiqued species, that mass hallucinations such as this were exceedingly common. There have been many cases throughout human history where people claimed to have seen ethereal figures. From Marian apparitions to the whisper of angels in the ears of curious children, people have always been given or given themselves reasons to believe in higher power; one capable of both communication and benevolence.

Though far off from any theological commune, the idea always sat wrong with Dirk. He’s been forced to accept over time that he is largely at the mercy of the unyielding concept of paradox space and that his life was laid out before him in perfect detail for the necessary success of a timeline before he’d even been paradoxically created from goo. It’s taken a while, but he’s become accustomed to his own lack of agency in the greater scheme of the greater good and has decided that if this sprawling universe and heavy mornings wrapped in a kind of saccharine solitude with a quasi-paramour is what paradox space has in store for the mediocrity of his perpetual existence, he’s more than satisfied to take it.

However, he’s not going to accept a non-possibility that there is a higher consciousness controlling the fabric of reality. If there was some form of benign god, watching over him with a patriarchal fondness and boundless mercy, then it had a sick sense of humour or perhaps wasn’t so benevolent at all. He would be far more inclined to believe in the existence of a wily trickster deity who got its sick kicks from watching children perish time after time than in the presence of an all-forgiving, gracious one. But really, that’s how paradox space itself could be envisioned if it was an old man with a white beard and a sense of consciousness capable of playing some out-there pranks.

Jake, however, has always had a sense of spirituality about him. Not the kind that leads to sacred heart images plastered over doorways or loose beads being carried in the recesses of a sylladex. Dirk doubts Jake even has passing knowledge of the culture of organised religion, growing up just as isolated as himself. But that doesn’t stop the ever-present feeling that Jake believes in something more, something higher, something hidden. It’s not a man with some rock and a castle kingdom, but it’s something, perhaps too complex for Dirk to comprehend or for even Jake to notice he subconsciously does it.

In many ways, he resembles an angel of sorts. Now, Dirk’s seen angels in renaissance art, the colours dull through a computer screen, and he would hesitate to compare Jake to any he’s seen encapsulated there. Sure, Jake has soft, rounded features and have always packed a touch of baby fat far past adolescence, but he’s not _cherubic._ He’s hardly the angels from what Dirk has taken to be more likely, if still utterly impossible, accounts.

Now, he has seen angels in person, the connection is undeniable if still not cosmetic. His view on angels has remained stagnant, yet also changed irreparably. Now, he has no validity in denying their existence, but he also has the uncomfortable knowledge that they are just as eldritch in nature as he’d presumed.

Angels scream. Loudly.

Any damage to his eardrums from the experience however is a minor, almost superficial, injury compared to the rest. Jane chastised him harshly while healing him, as if he’d drowned himself deliberately or walked out into traffic instead of fighting a necessary adversary to buy time for everyone else who was disposed. Caliborn may be a pathetic, perpetually prepubescent gremlin of an adversary, but he knows how to swing a cane and Dirk has to begrudgingly, if silently, give him some credit for being able to so thoroughly pummel him into the ground.

When it comes down to it, the angels saved his life. Jake specifically. He can forgive them for being loud.

Though he’s not sure why Jake is taking it upon himself _now_ of all occasions to reorganise their bookshelf.

“I’m sorry I let it get into this clutter in the first place. Jesus fucking Christmas, it’s in a right state now isn’t it?” Jake says, talking over the excessive banging of hardbacks on to the wooden floorboards as he unpacks the shelf. “You know, Strider, I think I’m starting to see what you mean about this whole tidying malarkey. I think it really would be an easier feat if we just didn’t let it get into this sort of disrepair in the first place and then it would be an easy sitch keeping everything spick and span!”

“We, he says,” Dirk replies, fidgeting with the duvet. Jake’s putting the books back in the wrong order and it’s frustrating that there’s nothing he can do to stop him. Ordinarily he would intervene under the guise of assistance and hand them to Jake in the correct order. But ordinarily he would be in much better shape.

He came out the worst of the four of them, naturally. Roxy’s splintered tibia was an obvious second, but it didn’t come close to the sheer fracturing of his body under Caliborn’s manic, childish vengeance. Jane has only been able to heal him in increments and, thus far, the pace has been unsatisfactory. The threat of having to wait this out like a normal mortal however looms over his head so he doesn’t dare be outwardly impatient about the whole thing.

Jake clicks his tongue, shooting Dirk a look over his shoulder. “Yes _we._ Just because you don’t make a mess here doesn’t mean you don’t leave the drains clogged until they back up on me while I’m taking a dip!”

He’ll give him that one. Jake knows it too and grins impishly before turning back, chin in the air, and returning another book to the wrong shelf. Reaching forward pulls the material of his shirt tight around his shoulders. Dirk considers for a moment that maybe he’s had another growth spurt but more than likely he’s just pulled out an old shirt from the wardrobe. Once he’s finished mulling over the frankly quite worrying thought that Jake might still grow some more at twenty years old- nineteen had similarly felt too old for a growth spurt yet here he is- his mind naturally begins to wander, as it is prone too when on a previous topic of Jake and whatever he decides to wear on the regular.

Five days is not a long time to go without sex. Dirk honestly went through the first years of their rehashed relationship not expecting it to happen at all, all things considered. He’d grown accepting and dismissive in his abstinence, until one day, almost three years in, Jake leaned across a pitcher of orange juice and said “you know I’m ready when you are, right?”

Five days is pretty typical. It’s not even uncommon for any absences to last weeks. Should the mood strike, Dirk is generally perfectly capable of sorting it out for himself, even if the most hardline of pornography tends to pose little more than aesthetic interest to him nowadays. It’s entertaining, but there’s no feeling to it.

Currently Dirk is not capable of sorting anything out for himself. Jane did immediately heal his legs, both under the strictly unspoken knowledge that Dirk would never accept being so vulnerable as to need someone to help him use the bathroom, but his shoulder and ribs are still posing serious difficulty with basic tasks. He’s attempted to power through it, but generally only makes it to the bathroom before realising it’s fruitless and retreating to bed, thankful for the sake of his pride that at least he didn’t vocalise his intentions. Under normal circumstances, he would be far more irritated at his general helplessness than the fact that his masturbatory abilities are diminished.

Dirk likes being in control. Fact. Dirk does not like being vulnerable in front of other people and does not like asking for help. Fact. Dirk is understandably grateful, despite this, to Jake for stepping in and saving his life and is continually grateful for him sticking around to act as savvy nurse to his mutant Warner Bros. rat. Fact.

Dirk has become exceedingly interested in Jake exerting some manner of control over him sexually, preferably in a specific show of aspect-based strength. Fact.

Don’t get him wrong, he can appreciate that Jake saved him in an entirely platonic and objective manner. He can assess the incredible ferocity of Jake’s powers and how they manifested in a manner that Jake believed they would, rather than how they specifically should have, entirely in line with how they specifically should have and did, in all actuality. He could write a fucking research paper on the mechanics and subtle ironies of Jake’s ultimate shattering of a precarious catch-22 situation to take hold of the powers that eluded him for almost five years, just in the nick of time. And for _Dirk_ of all people. Perhaps his take on it can never truly be platonic, but it can certainly be nonsexual.

However, there is also something to be said for a specific show of strength in Dirk’s favour that caused not only his humbling but his entire existence to remain a constant. There’s something to be said for Jake, wheezing and manic, clenching his fists and shouting “get away from him!” as the atmosphere hurtles down. There’s most certainly something to be said for Jake releasing the howls of angels on to anyone who dared to lay a finger on Dirk. Of course, at the time, he was too busy being awestruck and half comatose under the whirling disintegration of the fabric of reality above him to be remotely sexually titillated. But he’s been agonising over every detail for three days straight, just to analyse whether or not he can truly discount mass hallucination as an explanation for everything, and constant mulling can put ideas in a guy’s head.

It’s not a newly discovered interest, but it’s one he has kept entirely under wraps. Jake is uncomfortable with any variety of perceived inequalities and, while it’s not overly difficult to avoid upsetting him, it narrows his list of acceptable kinks down to a select few. It's a precarious balancing act. Dirk is all too aware of what Jake used to be into before being thrown into an all too real rendition of Return of the Jedi, and the two are entirely at odds with each other to the point where Dirk is certain Jake would be more open to _this_ than anything on his ancient teenage hard drive.

It's just a matter of being cautious. Anyone who knows Jake remotely would know that he's not the kind of man to _dominate_ somebody but, really, Dirk isn't necessarily thinking that deep. He'd much prefer to deal with whatever fantasies his brain wants to obsess over himself than broach the subject, but he can't help but wonder _what if._

“You look lost in thought,” Jake comments, looking over his shoulder again as he places the last book on the shelf. “I'll give you a nickel for them.”

Dirk starts but recovers in an instant, raising a brow. “Inflation is getting worse I see.”

“Hush up and tell me what's on your mind,” Jake snorts, swiveling around to face the bed before pausing and opting to stand entirely instead. Well, there was progress for a bit at least.

After a moment, Dirk struggles to sit up a little, pushing himself off the pillows with a wince. Jake is over in a flash, propping him up gently against the feather down and fixing his duvet around him. Dirk’s gotten better with accepting Jake's help, but it doesn't stop his ears going pink or stop him thinking that really he'd rather Jake was pressing him down and--

“Well?” Jake asks, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“What? Oh.” Dirk pauses, shifting slightly and cringing again as the pain travels sharply down his back. This might be difficult. “I was just thinking about how shit went down, you know. Unlike some people I've still got some pressing reminders about it.”

It's almost unfair how easy Jake's wounds were to heal. He'd barely even had any once he came down from fucking heaven and only got a once over from Jane for his concussion. He'd definitely been way worse for wear before powering up so Dirk can hypothesise there are some healing properties to hope too. Really, he's right in thinking the possibilities truly are _endless._

Jake rolls his eyes. “Well maybe if _someone_ didn't get himself into such a state by insisting on doing everything off his own bat maybe he'd be right as rain too!”

“Yeah sure, and we'd all be dead as fuck.” Dirk rolls his eyes in turn before pausing. This does provide him with ample opening. He is careful not to cross the line between healthy encouragement and unnecessary pressure, as he gently places his hand on Jake's wrist, thumbing over it. His eyelids hood obviously as he attempts to meet Jake’s confused look.

“You know, if you really are that pissed about how shit went down, I’m more than willing to accept my punishment.”

Jake pauses for a moment, the cogs turning in his mind, before his face goes completely red. “Dirk, we are not doing _that_ while you have four broken ribs!”

Dirk’s expression smooths over and he flops back against the pillows, before wincing again. He sure does have four broken ribs. “You say that like it’s a big deal,” he replies, “I’ve broken ribs before. I’m kind of a professional at this point. You may not have noticed, but in the ribs-breaking business, Strider is a big fucking name. They spell my name in lights and barbeque ribs, just to be real fucking ironic.”

His attempts fall short, evident from the look Jake gives him. “That is about the most ludicrous suggestion you’ve ever given me and need I remind you that you once suggested that we _skip_ Attack of the Clones!”

“I don’t see anything ludicrous with discreetly implying you may or may not want to book an overnight stay on the boner express with your--” Dirk pauses. Jake raises a brow.

“Fiancé, paramour, partner in crime,” he rattles off, leaning in with the cheesiest of grins to flick the ring, fastened on the chain around Dirk’s neck. It’s a ridiculous, such a deliberately and forcefully charming gesture that it’s cringingly cliche. Dirk’s heart skips regardless.

“Yeah. That,” he replies, dumbly. Jake snickers. “Anyway, it’s just a thought.”

“And what a thought it is! By gum, I didn’t think you’d be able to stand considering anything like that seeing how laid up you are at the moment. What even brought this on?” Jake looks around the room, humming under his breath, as if perhaps Dirk has taped some salacious imagery of jacked up horse-men to the ceiling and could possibly have been inspired. When all he finds on the ceiling are the plastic, glow-in-the-dark stars he stuck up there when he first took over Dirk’s bedroom, he looks down at himself. “Is this shirt too small?” he asks, a touch self conscious.

“It’s not the shirt,” Dirk replies immediately. He won’t deny it helps though, if pressed.

“Then what is it! Not to be churlish about your predicament, Strider, but this is hardly the most sexy of situations to find oneself in!”

“Dude, are you ever going to quit using the word _sexy_ in all seriousness? You’re not even trying to be ironic. I can dig the antiqued jibes but 2001, where saying that would have been maybe remotely acceptable, is nowhere near long enough ago to come back into fashion.”

“You say that like the Spice Girls ever went out of fashion.”

“I’m honestly just going to pretend you didn’t say that, for the sanctity of my boner.”

Jake looks down sharply, and even a touch aghast. Not the _sexiest_ reaction, but Dirk will take it. “Oh very funny, Dirk, you don’t even _have_ a boner! Really had me going there for a minute, buddy!”

“See, I’m getting some serious deja vu right about now.” Dirk leans in a little, using most of his energy in forcing himself not to cringe at the pain that shoots up his back once more. “If my calculations are correct, you’re about to offer to give me a boner and, unlike some people, I’m going to gratefully accept your kind offer.”

That earns an indignant sputter as Jake’s face floods red again, his hands wringing and flapping together in a flurry of nervous, incoherent gesticulation. Dirk watches him carefully for any sign of honest discomfort under the obvious layer of embarrassment. It’s endearing, but teasing Jake like this always has an underlying layer of concern that this time he might push too hard or too far. He’s become an expert at discerning whether he’s genuinely uneasy or just flustered, but he still worries that maybe he’ll misread the situation.

“What’s gotten into you today?” Jake finally says, lips quirking up slightly at the corners in a crooked, if shifty, smile. Dirk breathes out. “If I didn’t know any better I’d think Roxy slipped you something to make you go loopy!”

“She gave me aspirin,” Dirk replies, brows raising. Roxy had five years less time to adjust to admittedly uncomfortable monthly visits and thus, luckily, always has a stash of painkillers. Just in case. Not that any mind altering substance has ever had joy working on Dirk so far but it was worth a shot. “Just. Consider it a token of my gratitude.” He pauses. “Not that sex is a bartering chip or some sort of commodity-”

“Wait,” Jake interrupts, brows furrowed. Then, his eyes widen and he leans all the way forward, causing Dirk to jerk back a little to avoid being hit in the face by his wagging finger. “I know what this is about!”

That seems unlikely. Dirk humours him and raises an eyebrow. “Do you.”

“I do!” He sits back, a triumphant smile playing across his lips. “I knew you were looking at me funny when I knocked that good-for-nothing gremlin into next Tuesday-- you thought it was _attractive_!”

Dirk is almost certain that any weird looks Jake got during that whole expedition were due to the fact that Jake was glowing like a night light and Dirk was severely concussed, accompanied also by the fact that there were literal angels emerging from his core, but he can give him some victory. “You’re not wrong,” he concedes, and Jake’s grin widens.

“I knew it! This is what the whole wrestling thing is about too, right? You’re _attracted_ to me!”

That earns a deadpan. “We've been dating, like, five years, bro. You're only getting that now?”

Jake falters for a second before he's right back in again. “I mean _specifically_ , Strider, don't be obtuse. You're attracted to me when…”

“When you exert some level of power over me or for me,” Dirk states. He's evaluated this within an inch of its existence, as he does with every manner of his brain when he can. He would elaborate it as _masculine_ power but, no, that isn't quite right any more. While that comes into play in the seconds Jake succeeds at pinning him before retreating in a friendly scrum, it definitely doesn't with regards to what happened the other day. Though Dirk chooses not to evaluate Jake's brain in turn.

Though perhaps some brain picking is in order. Jake pauses again, shifting slightly on the mattress, and Dirk is suddenly aware that he may have pushed too far again. “See the thing is…”

Dirk immediately backs off, physically pressing himself back against the headboard to give Jake the illusion of space between them. “Yeah, no, dude it’s fine. You don’t have to qualify it or anything.”

“Hey now, hear me out at least!” Jake insists, closing the space between them again, unintentionally crowding into Dirk’s space. Not that he remotely minds. “We can hardly go for a round of fisticuffs while you’re still beat black and blue, can we?”

There’s a beat of Dirk considering that, really, they could. Jake would certainly come out victorious if Dirk can barely fight back and Jane would probably only reprimand them for an hour or so for aggravating his injuries. But Jake is right in so much as Dirk knows Jake won’t lay a finger on him until he’s certifiably back in one piece. “I was more considering your powers,” Dirk replies, finally.

To his utter chagrin, Jake barks out a laugh before covering his mouth. “Dirk! They most certainly do _not_ work like that!”

“Says the guy who didn’t know how they worked at all last time I checked.”

Jake goes to give him an indignant shove, only for him to remember Dirk’s injuries mid gesture and give him a weak shoulder pat instead. Dirk smirks. “I know I can’t use them on cue! And _especially_ not for hanky panky of all things!”

“Don’t say hanky panky too loud or the ghost of my long deceased pa from 1860 might come back and haunt your hide.”

That too earns uproarious laughter and Dirk’s lips quirk up. In all honesty, he knew he wasn’t going to have much luck on this front. Even aside from Jake’s obvious apprehension to all things unbalanced in their relationship, he’s hardly a dominant personality. He’s caring and sweet, and entirely overwhelming at times, but he’s never going to be able to take charge and push Dirk into a mattress without stopping to check if he’s alright every five seconds. And honestly, he wouldn’t be the ridiculously charming, if entirely strange, boy Dirk fell for otherwise.

“So that’s a no on the hanky panky then?” he says lightly, settling against the pillows.

Jake rolls his eyes. “I can give you a handie,” he says finally and Dirk’s eyes widen slightly.

“I was mostly joking. You don’t have to do that,” he says, cautiously considering. “I mean, like you impressively noticed, I don’t even have a boner.”

“Pish posh, I can sort that bit out easy as pie!” he answers, before going full Jack Horner on the situation and shoving his hand under the duvet and into Dirk’s pants and-- okay, yeah, looks like that really was easy as pie.

Five days really isn’t that long, but evidently it must be from the point of view of Dirk’s groin. Jake’s hand is literally only wrapping around him, as he leans in with hot breath to press a sloppy kiss to Dirk’s jaw, by the time he’s fully hard. He hasn’t been this eager to go since that three month dry spell after some poorly chosen Christmas decorations and even then there was a considerable amount of Jake kissing him absolutely silly first. It’s an odd, almost dizzy feeling, for his blood to redistribute in his body this quickly and he flops against the pillows, eyes falling towards the ceiling before darting back to where Jake is watching him intently.

“I have my limitations, Strider, but I’m not opposed to your inclinations so to speak.” He winks. “If me pounding skeletal hiney is what gets your rocks off then I won’t stop you from doing a little reminiscing.”

Dirk wants very desperately to groan “ _phrasing_ ,” at that comment but his throat feels strange and charged in the split second before Jake’s pressing his lips to his anyway and effectively silencing what may or may not have been a successful comment. Jake is sloppy as usual. Dirk’s never had the heart to inform him that he kisses like a particularly excited labrador. His lips are too wet and he uses his tongue far too liberally to have any finesse. It’s not something particularly bothersome, however- it’s just Jake. Besides, when it gets too much, Dirk is perfectly capable of wiping his mouth on the back of his wrist discreetly when Jake comes up for air.

Currently, excess saliva is the last thing on Dirk’s mind. The moment Jake’s lips touch his, his brain proceeds to short circuit. It’s as if someone has snapped a nerve and has left him unable to process anything at the correct speed. Every miniscule movement of Jake’s lips against his happens too fast for him to process and every millimetre of skin on skin contact feels as if it weighs down on him, breaking apart the very cell structure in his mouth. It’s an indescribable amount of time between the first contact and Jake pulling back and Dirk can feel every electron stolen from him channeling themselves up through the invisible string of saliva still connecting them. It breaks and everything rushes into focus, so quickly that his head _pounds_ and colours flash before his eyes in an attempt to form his vision of Jake into a concrete perception once again. It literally draws a _whine_ from his throat as his body moves upwards towards the heat emitting from Jake’s body, twisting involuntarily as pain shoots down is spine again. Jake yelps and steadies him with his free hand on Dirk’s good shoulder, brow furrowing in concern even has his lips quirk in amusement.

“Steady now, you’ll knock another rib out at this rate! Gee wilikers, you’re more wriggly than--”

Jake twists his hand around Dirk and his vision blurs again, sparks of colour persisting even when he squeezes his eyes shut. The hand on his shoulder feels like it’s burning him right through his shirt, the pads of his fingers exerting the equivalent pressure to hot iron embedding in his skin. It doesn’t _hurt_ ; it feels like a beyond pain, as if something has crossed a threshold into fundamentally overwhelming sensation, bypassing the hurt that should naturally come before it.

It’s a moment before Jake obviously catches on that Dirk isn’t listening. Even if he attempted to listen, he knows the words wouldn’t register as anything except a garbled mess of too much stimuli. Dirk doesn’t see the exact moment when Jake decides to press on forward, but he feels his grip squeeze ever so slightly before quickening and it feels as if he has pins sticking into every surface of his body while simultaneously being drenched in warm oil and bath salts. He struggles for breath under the ghost pressure exerting down on his chest and abdomen. His dignity doesn’t even need to push back and fight against the urge to scream and shout and plead- every noise he attempts gets caught wetly in his throat so only bubbles come to the surface, forcing their way up through his spasming windpipe.

Jake is blissfully unaware of what he’s doing- and what _is_ he doing?- as he twists his hand again, pressing his mouth chastely to the corner of Dirk’s lip as Dirk struggles, not against the urge to sob, but against the inability to do anything but choke on air as his brain scrambles for a foothold in logic and fails.

He thinks about angels then. He thinks about angels, grotesque miracles, ripping from Jake’s fingertips and surrounding him in a shroud of visible white noise. How they almost shielded him, bubbling around him as Jake brought down the fury of a higher power, or of his own higher power, on Dirk’s behalf. He thinks about a child watching the ghost of a lamb being placed on an unstable, decimated altar, and wonders if the hym that echoed there too was the shrieking, banshee call of faith and fate, intermingled and inextractable from their interwoven state--

Jake’s lips are pressed to his again, right as his hand clenches, and-- Dirk whites out. He feels the indescribable snip of nerves in his spine and the immediate cessation of every chord in his brain. Every cell of his body threatens to burn its way through him and somehow he can _sense_ this, despite also sensing that he can sense nothing at all. His vision blurs and focuses, but not on what he must _know_ is what he’s actually seeing- the pores of Jake’s face, slightly damp, and every meticulously counted hair of his brow- but on the entire solar system, spread out from what remained of the old milky way all the way to where the fabric of reality breaks down and cracks into what Dirk sees behind Jake’s head when he’s supposed to be watching the constellations but finds his gaze consistently drawn to the brightest star of all. The unmistakable pull of his own self, cracked, splintered, and pieced back together with tape, from under his shattered ribcage, forces his body to arch and float and tear itself to shreds until--

there’s Nothing left.

 

Jake has already extracted his hand and is wiping himself clean with a tissue from the box on the bedside table by the time Dirk blinks away the stars. He is thinly aware that he’s sprawled, somewhat disheveled, against the pillows. He weakly pushes his hand through his thoroughly destroyed hair, the one thing bed-ridden him had going for him. It’s tousled with sweat but he can’t even find it in himself to desire a shower. Holy _shit._

“What was that?” he croaks, after a long minute just watching Jake clean between his fingers and dump the tissue in the waste paper basket.

Jake looks confused. “Well, you gave out such a stink last time I wiped my hands in the mattress I thought I better give myself a once over. I didn’t think there was a shortage on tissues as well as bed sheets.”

It’s a matter of cleanliness and Dirk can’t even bring himself to remember that prior conversation, let alone remotely care. Jake could have wiped his hand in his _hair_ and Dirk wouldn’t have even _cared_. “You...what did you do?”

There’s a pause before Jake’s brows are raising even further. “Now, I think you’re plenty well versed to know what a _handjob_ is, Dirk? You didn’t knock a few loaves out of the breadbasket with all that trashing around, did you?”

“ _No,_ just. Jesus _fuck_ , Jake.”

Jake watches in obvious amusement as Dirk uselessly flops back down on to the pillows, wincing once again at the pain. He carefully swings his legs up on to the bed too, fitting beside Dirk warily as he grins towards the ceiling, his eyes flitting towards the plastic stars that slowly begin to glow in the approaching dusk. “I’ll take that as a compliment! It’s nice to know I blew your mind. As always of course!”

Jake snickers, a touch immaturely, as his words slowly sink into Dirk’s recovering brain. How many times exactly _has_ he offhandedly commented that Jake _blew his fucking mind_? Too many times for it not to make an impact, obviously. Which begs the question- is this how Jake thinks it feels for him _all the time_? Which begs another question- just how far does Jake’s belief _go_?

“Oh my fucking god,” Dirk says, and he means it now more than ever.

 

 


End file.
